Short Story The Giver

Now I feel that the thief is getting what he deserves. When they leave the thief standing in the road “the boy” becomes extremely upset, “And They set out along south with the boy crying and looking back at the nude and saltlike creature standing there in the road shivering and hugging himself.” “Oh Papa, he sobbed.”(McCarthy 258). I am now starting to feel the compassion the boy has towards the thief “He was hungry, Papa.” “He’s going to die.”(McCarthy 259). They finally take the thief’s clothes back and pile them in the middle of the road and I am glad of this. Later as they were lying down at camp I believe the man was starting to feel guilty, and he spoke “I wasnt going to kill him, he said.” “But the boy didnt answer.” “They rolled themselves in the blankets and lay there in the dark.” “He could tell the boy was awake and after a while the boy said: but we did kill him.”(McCarthy 260). When “the boy” made this comment I felt deep remorse and disgust in myself for having felt so harshly toward the thief in the beginning. I also felt happiness and relief in this story when “the man” and “the boy” found the underground shelter behind the house in the field, I felt as if I was there with them discovering the grand riches this den held! “Oh my God, he whispered.” “Oh my God.” “What is it

Readers who give up early on the challenging read of The Giver will miss out on the meaningful lessons and themes in the story. Jonas is the main character in The Giver, a science fiction novel by Lois Lowry. Jonas lives in a society with no color, no music, no feelings, and no love. Everything seems perfect to the people of the community, but no one has any memories of what came before them. When Jonas is selected to become the new receiver of memory he meets The Giver, a man who has all the memories of the world.

When I awoke, I mounted Nevada again and started making my way down the slope again, weaving in and out of thorn bushes and nearly black pine trees. Wolves and other beasts lurk in the distance around us, but so far we have encountered no such dangers. I’m more concerned with this lord sending his men after me. As I have described previously, we didn’t part on the most ideal terms. He was furious, that man. He tried to strike me. He tried to slice me to ribbons with his sword. He tried to shoot me with his gun. That wicked man…as much as I detested him I cannot help but feel for him and his loss. Everyone’s

Purple bruises were scattered across her frail wrist like grotesque, swollen beetles. Her knee jutted out awkwardly to her side. Her bleeding, cracked lips were shrunken to a tiny buttonhole. Her tongue stuck out between her teeth like a piece of rubber. Her eyelids fluttered feebly as she lay there - defeated, defenseless, and desolate. Her chest heaved up and down, as her lungs fought for breath – she was barely alive. A caked, muddy trail of shoeprints followed him out the door. He had gotten away again. Tears prickled at the back of my eyes. My throat swelled up as my steely resolve began to dissolve. Grief shook my shoulders like an inner earthquake, the world around me crashing down. A nauseating mixture of relief and horror clenched tightly onto my loins – like when you finally stop an itch, only to realize that you’ve ripped a hole in your

It was terrible, horrid, a painful dispute between a victim and the victims will to live. It's dreary wallow built up like steam building and building until it bursts, crashing, confessing it's terrible emotions to the moon. It saddened him deeply, sinking into him with all the heartache of loss.

Most of what we cherish in our lives is freedom, would we give up freedom to live in a perfect world? In The Giver, genetics, sameness, and surveillance are some characteristics that make up Utopia. Personally, I would rather have freedom, not be watched or for my body to be genetically modified. Why should we live in Utopia, only to have a tedious life ahead of us when we could have a diverse world full of unique events and experiences.

His black hair was slicked back with too much grease and a scar of unknown origin traced his jaw. Ink crawled down his arm as though it were venom coursing through his veins. His imposing body struck fear into the heart that was once bursting with courage. It was too late to back down, but it did not matter . . . a hero never backs down.

One of the important topics in school, Social Studies, is talked about not being taught anymore. Social Studies should be taught to inform our children about our history. Social Studies teaches about our past and who we are. For example, In the book The Giver, Jonas doesn't know about his past he just thinks that the only time that exists is now. If Social Studies isn't educated to kids they will be like Jonas, but if they are educated about our History they will know about their ancestors and how the world came to be.

I wander through the house aimlessly trying to find where I had left the box that my Dad had told me to get. I trek up and down the stairs and throughout the barren house and the box I misplaced is nowhere to be found. But as I wander throughout the barren house looking for this box, I stumble into the narrow kitchen and memories start to slowly creep into my mind, it overwhelms me and a tear begins to roll down my plump ten-year-old face.

We were sitting at our dinner table, going through the usual nightly routine. We say how we felt throughout the day. we can only express our feelings in one word, its one of the rules. I usually fight with my sister for who gets to go first, but today I just tell her to go. "Thank you, Jonas." I hear her say. I am just too worried to fight. Because all I've been thinking about is the ceremony of twelve.

Jonas lay on the frigid and cruel ground, which he was destined to be on. He glanced up and gazed at the avalanche of white flacks that scattered all around him. They glistened high up from the moonlight, but then, straight away, they came crashing to the ground. Jonas felt like a death blanket was piling on top of him. He could hear the howling wind roar like a furious lion. The arctic air froze faster every second. His knees were destroyed. His skin was teared into shreds, dangling off a limb. Blood came gushing out of the cut skin as it rapidly ran down the side of his foot and onto the snow. Purple bruises and bumps covered around it. Blisters stung everywhere. He bit his lip in agony, preventing himself from screaming. He didn't want to

Jonas turned around, listening to the bells ringing all around him. He woke up, as it was all just a dream. Everything from escaping-- his plans, gone. He struggled in the Giver's room to get up and was thinking all about how it could of gone down if it was somehow real. The Giver was awake reading a book. I said hello, and he turned around as if he was shocked to see me. "Are you okay? What happened, I heard you mumbling in your sleep". I told him about my crazy dream of running away from the civilization. He warned me not to, or else everyone would know I am a savage and that I left. "How are you feeling about your father? Are you ready to go home?", he asked me. I said "I guess"-- still feeling puzzled about that dream. Later, I arrived

A sprinkling of young, attractive actors and actresses, one heaped teaspoon of 'Divergent', another of 'The Hunger Games' and a dash of 'The Truman Show'. Bake for ninety seven minutes. Ice with Meryl Streep. Liberally.

There were flashes everywhere. Each flash was directed towards Jonas and Gabe. The bright flashes made Jonas’s sleepy eyes glance up. He knew he reached Elsewhere but why didn’t anything happen? He thought that something magical was going to happen. But he didn’t feel any sensation. Then, sleep overtook Jonas and he fell to the ground, glimpsing at the vibrant shade of red on the sled.

She could have laughed with utter delight at the tension that brewed between the two, the way that a woman watched her like a suspicious dog stepping carefully about a bird with a sharp beak. The fury that had caused her blood to boil was settling into something much more cautious, but infinitely more threatening. It was the difference between the pleasure one got from pulling the trigger that executed their enemy and the satisfaction that was obtained from slipping the knife between the ribs of a victim of vengeance. But such satisfaction was only doubled with time, becoming richer as time passed -- so that one day it might be indulged like a fine wine.